From the stars
by TazalTerminals
Summary: What if mankind didn't originate from earth. What if in times long past, a ship crash landed on earth. What if out there among the stars, an ancient foe is searching to snuff out the last few remaining lights of mankind. No OP characters. Characters will be as canon like as I can make them. Rated T but might change in the future. Review and critiques welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, this is Tazal Terminal here. I had being meaning to write this story for quite some time but hadn't being able to decide on what kind of beginning I should have. Well I have finally decided and here we have a little prologue. Sorry if it's a bit short and confusing but prologues are meant to tease the readers after all. Now without further ado, LETS BEGIN! **

**P.S I do not own Percy Jackson. Seriously**

Prologue

Two men stood in the middle of a strange shipyard. What made it strange was the fact that not only was there neither ship nor men could be seen, but also it was not built on the banks of a river or on the shore of a sea. It was located on gear shaped platform which was floating some two hundred feet of the ground. Four rather large towers connected it to the city below. The streets were full of activity was men went to and fro. Some were carrying boxes, crates and weapons while others armed to the teeth were moving towards the city walls. Above was the same story. Massive ships the length of well over half a kilometer, made entirely of metal and wood were slowly entering blue swirling portals. Once a ship entered its portal, there would a moment of nothing before it would close suddenly with a mighty crack.

"You sure you made the right decision, High Marshall?" said the taller of the two observers. He wore a dark green cloak that hid covered most of his body except for his steel toed boots. A sheathed sword hang from a belt on his left. His black hair was tied back in a pony tail while a grey mask hid his face with the expectation of the electric blue eyes. He continued with:

"I mean no disrespect sir but now that I think over it, the plan seems rather desperate. We both know that the chance of the colony ships finding a habitable world is one in a hundred. That is not counting the fact that the jump might not even succeed along with the danger of supply shortage before reaching their targets. It would have being better that they-"

A hand silenced him from the now identified High Marshall. He was a man well past his prime as the grey hair and moustache showed. The navy blue coat and pants he wore were old and battered. On his back was a scrap musket, also showing signs of old age. His face was lined with age but the light in his grey eyes had not dimmed since the day he was born. It was the eyes of someone who had seen much and knew much. When he spoke, his voice was one of world weary and gruff, but underlined with gentleness usually found in elder people. "Ow, stop using the sir Lurn. We are old friends are we not? I know full well that my plan is a desperate one, but what other choice was there. Staying here would have meant certain death for them all. Out there, they at least stand a chance of survival. Our enemy is strong, even after fifteen years of war. In that time, almost all of our worlds have fallen expect our home world, a home world I might add that is also about to fall. They now carry the hope of humanity on their shoulders. We will stay to buy time for them and create the illusion of our extinction. With luck, our enemy will take it and will not look for survivors but I have long since stopped believing in luck."

After he finished, the two didn't speak until the last of the ships had departed for their uncertain journey.

"My family is on one of them you know. My wife Laurence, the twins Zun and Zul and my newborn girl Nikk. I didn't get the chance to even say goodbye."

"I know how you feel. My grandchildren are also onboard one of them along with their mother. My son decided to stay, saying it was his job to make sure his loved ones were safe."

Then as the sun slowly sank behind the mountains east of the city, the cold southern winds came howling. Along with it was the sound of horns. It was time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, this is TazalTerminals here. Sorry for the copy pasted chapter here but I just simply couldn't write one that didn't ruin the part I added here. I promise things like this will not happen often. Anyway, enough talk LETS START!**

**Chapter 1(5 for canon)**

I had weird dreams full of barnyard animals. Most of them wanted to kill me.

The rest wanted food.

I must've woken up several times, but what I heard and saw made no sense, so

I just passed out again. I remember lying in a soft bed, being spoon-fed something that tasted like buttered popcorn, only it was pudding. The girl with curly blond hair hovered over me, smirking as she scraped drips off my chin with the spoon.

When she saw my eyes open, she asked, "What will happen at the summer solstice?"

I managed to croak, "What?"

She looked around, as if afraid someone would overhear. "What's going on?

What was stolen? We've only got a few weeks!"

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, "I don't..."

Somebody knocked on the door, and the girl quickly filled my mouth with pudding.

The next time I woke up, the girl was gone.

A husky blond dude, like a surfer, stood in the corner of the bedroom keeping watch over me.

He had blue eyes— at least a dozen of them—on his cheeks, his forehead, the backs of his hands.

When I finally came around for good, there was nothing weird about my surroundings, except that they were nicer than I was used to. I was sitting in a deck chair on a huge porch, gazing across a meadow at green hills in the distance. The breeze smelled like strawberries. There was a blanket over my legs, a pillow behind my neck. All that was great, but my mouth felt like a scorpion had been using it for a nest. My tongue was dry and nasty and every one of my teeth hurt.

On the table next to me was a tall drink. It looked like iced apple juice, with a green straw and a paper parasol stuck through a maraschino cherry.

My hand was so weak I almost dropped the glass once I got my fingers around it.

"Careful," a familiar voice said.

Grover was leaning against the porch railing, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. Under one arm, he cradled a shoe box. He was wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops and a bright orange T-shirt that said CAMP HALF-BLOOD. Just plain old Grover, Not the goat boy.

So maybe I'd had a nightmare. Maybe my mom was okay. We were still on vacation, and we'd stopped here at this big house for some reason. And ...

"You saved my life," Grover said. "I... well, the least I could do ... I went back to the hill. I thought you might want this."

Reverently, he placed the shoe box in my lap.

Inside was a black-and-white bull's horn, the base jagged from being broken off, the tip splattered with dried blood. It hadn't been a nightmare.

"The Minotaur," I said.

"Urn, Percy, it isn't a good idea—"

"That's what they call him in the Greek myths, isn't it?" I demanded. "The Minotaur. Half man, half bull."

Grover shifted uncomfortably. "You've been out for two days. How much do you remember?"

"My mom. Is she really ..."

He looked down.

I stared across the meadow. There were groves of trees, a winding stream, acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley was surrounded by rolling hills, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, was the one with the huge pine tree on top. Even that looked beautiful in the sunlight.

My mother was gone. The whole world should be black and cold. Nothing should look beautiful.

"I'm sorry," Grover sniffled. "I'm a failure. I'm—I'm the worst satyr in the world."

He moaned, stomping his foot so hard it came off. I mean, the Converse hi-top came off. The inside was filled with Styrofoam, except for a hoof-shaped hole.

"Oh, Styx!" he mumbled.

Thunder rolled across the clear sky.

As he struggled to get his hoof back in the fake foot, I thought, Well, that settles it.

Grover was a satyr. I was ready to bet that if I shaved his curly brown hair, I'd find tiny horns on his head. But I was too miserable to care that satyrs existed, or even minotaurs. All that meant was my mom really had been squeezed into nothingness, dissolved into yellow light.

I was alone. An orphan. I would have to live with ... Smelly Gabe? No. That would never happen. I would live on the streets first. I would pretend I was seventeen and join the army. I'd do something.

Grover was still sniffling. The poor kid—poor goat, satyr, whatever—looked as if he expected to be hit.

I said, "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect you."

"Did my mother ask you to protect me?"

"No. But that's my job. I'm a keeper. At least... I was."

"But why ..." I suddenly felt dizzy, my vision swimming.

"Don't strain yourself," Grover said. "Here." He helped me hold my glass and put the straw to my lips.

I recoiled at the taste, because I was expecting apple juice. It wasn't that at all.

It was chocolate-chip cookies. Liquid cookies. And not just any cookies—my mom's homemade blue chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with the chips still melting.

Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My grief didn't go away, but I felt as if my mom had just brushed her hand against my cheek, given me a cookie the way she used to when I was small, and told me everything was going to be okay.

Before I knew it, I'd drained the glass. I stared into it, sure I'd just had a warm drink, but the ice cubes hadn't even melted.

"Was it good?" Grover asked.

I nodded.

"What did it taste like?" He sounded so wistful, I felt guilty.

"Sorry," I said. "I should've let you taste."

His eyes got wide. "No! That's not what I meant. I just... wondered."

"Chocolate-chip cookies," I said. "My mom's. Homemade."

He sighed. "And how do you feel?"

"Like I could throw Nancy Bobofit a hundred yards."

"That's good," he said. "That's good. I don't think you could risk drinking any more of that stuff"

"What do you mean?"

He took the empty glass from me gingerly, as if it were dynamite, and set it back on the table.

"Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting."

The porch wrapped all the way around the farmhouse.

My legs felt wobbly, trying to walk that far. Grover offered to carry the

Minotaur horn, but I held on to it. I'd paid for that souvenir the hard way. I wasn't going to let it go.

As we came around the opposite end of the house, I caught my breath.

We must've been on the north shore of Long Island, because on this side of the house, the valley marched all the way up to the water, which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn't process everything I was seeing. The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture—an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena—except that they all looked brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school-age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover's were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shot targets at an archery range. Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I was hallucinating, some of their horses had wings.

Down at the end of the porch, two men sat across from each other at a card table. The blond-haired girl who'd spoon-fed me popcorn-flavored pudding was leaning on the porch rail next to them.

The man facing me was small, but porky. He had a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so black it was almost purple. He looked like those paintings of baby angels— what do you call them, hubbubs? No, cherubs. That's it. He looked like a cherub who'd turned middle-aged in a trailer park. He wore a tiger-pattern Hawaiian shirt, and he would've fit right in at one of Gabe's poker parties, except I got the feeling this guy could've out-gambled even my stepfather.

"That's Mr. D," Grover murmured to me. "He's the camp director. Be polite.

The girl, that's Annabeth Chase. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And you already know Chiron... ."

He pointed at the guy whose back was to me.

First, I realized he was sitting in the wheelchair. Then I recognized the tweed jacket, the thinning brown hair, the scraggly beard.

"Mr. Brunner!" I cried.

The Latin teacher turned and smiled at me. His eyes had that mischievous glint they sometimes got in class when he pulled a pop quiz and made all the multiple choice answers B.

"Ah, good, Percy," he said. "Now we have four for pinochle."

He offered me a chair to the right of Mr. D, who looked at me with bloodshot eyes and heaved a great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half- Blood. There. Now, don't expect me to be glad to see you."

"Uh, thanks." I scooted a little farther away from him because, if there was one thing I had learned from living with Gabe, it was how to tell when an adult has been hitting the happy juice.

If Mr. D was a stranger to alcohol, I was a satyr.

"Annabeth?" Mr. Brunner called to the blond girl.

She came forward and Mr. Brunner introduced us. "This young lady nursed you back to health, Percy. Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check on Percy's bunk? We'll be putting him in cabin eleven for now."

Annabeth said, "Sure, Chiron."

She was probably my age, maybe a couple of inches taller, and a whole lot more athletic looking. With her deep tan and her curly blond hair, she was almost exactly what I thought a stereotypical California girl would look like, except her eyes ruined the image. They were startling gray, like storm clouds; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if she were analyzing the best way to take me down in a fight.

She glanced at the minotaur horn in my hands, then back at me. I imagined she was going to say, You killed a minotaur! or Wow, you're so awesome! or something like that.

Instead she said, "You drool when you sleep."

Then she sprinted off down the lawn, her blond hair flying behind her.

"So," I said, anxious to change the subject. "You, uh, work here, Mr.

Brunner?"

"Not Mr. Brunner," the ex—Mr. Brunner said. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."

"Okay." Totally confused, I looked at the director. "And Mr. D ... does that stand for something?"

Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards. He looked at me like I'd just belched loudly. "Young man, names are powerful things. You don't just go around using them for no reason."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

"I must say, Percy," Chiron-Brunner broke in, "I'm glad to see you alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper. I'd hate to think

I've wasted my time."

"House call?"

"My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a lookout. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met you. He sensed you were something special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to ... ah, take a leave of absence."

I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation, he had disappeared and Mr. Brunner had taken the class.

"You came to Yancy just to teach me?" I asked.

Chiron nodded. "Honestly, I wasn't sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."

"Grover," Mr. D said impatiently, "are you playing or not?"

"Yes, sir!" Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn't know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyed me suspiciously.

"I'm afraid not," I said.

"I'm afraid not, sir," he said.

"Sir," I repeated. I was liking the camp director less and less.

"Well," he told me, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules."

"I'm sure the boy can learn," Chiron said.

"Please," I said, "what is this place? What am I doing here? Mr. Brun—

Chiron—why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?"

Mr. D snorted. "I asked the same question."

The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in

his pile.

Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer.

"Percy," he said. "Did your mother tell you nothing?'

"She said ..." I remembered her sad eyes, looking out over the sea. "She told me she was afraid to send me here, even though my father had wanted her to. She said that once I was here, I probably couldn't leave. She wanted to keep me close to her."

"Typical," Mr. D said. "That's how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?"

"What?" I asked.

He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so I did.

"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."

"Orientation film?" I asked.

"No," Chiron decided. "Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr.

You know"— he pointed to the horn in the shoe box—"that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lad. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods—the forces you call the Greek gods—are very much alive."

I stared at the others around the table.

I waited for somebody to yell, Not! But all I got was Mr. D yelling, "Oh, a royal marriage.

Trick! Trick!" He cackled as he tallied up his points.

"Mr. D," Grover asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your

Diet Coke can?"

"Eh? Oh, all right."

Grover bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.

"Wait," I told Chiron. "You're telling me there's such a thing as God."

"Well, now," Chiron said. "God—capital G, God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't deal with the metaphysical."

"Metaphysical? But you were just talking about—"

"Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter."

"Smaller?"

"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."

"Zeus," I said. "Hera. Apollo. You mean them."

And there it was again—distant thunder on a cloudless day.

"Young man," said Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around, if I were you."

"But they're stories," I said. "They're—myths, to explain lightning and the seasons and stuff.

They're what people believed before there was science."

"Science!" Mr. D scoffed. "And tell me, Perseus Jackson"—I flinched when he said my real name, which I never told anybody—"what will people think of your

'science' two thousand years from now?" Mr. D continued. "Hmm? They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. That's what. Oh, I love mortals—they have absolutely no sense of perspective. They think they've come so-o-o far.

And have they, Chiron? Look at this boy and tell me."

I wasn't liking Mr. D much, but there was something about the way he called me mortal, as if... he wasn't. It was enough to put a lump in my throat, to suggest why Grover was dutifully minding his cards, chewing his soda can, and keeping his mouth shut.

Then a voice to our turn spoke.

"So, finally awake I see. Took ya long enough, kid."

Turning around I saw an old man coming towards us. When he stopped near us, I got a good look at him. His hair was strangely enough, sky blue with a few strands of grey here and there, not to mention his bushy moustache was of the same color. Deep grey eyes stared at me curiously. He wore an open deep green trench coat, revealing a black shirt and light orange cargo pants held up by leather belt. Along with a dark grey boots with rings, he struck me as someone from the 50s.

"Ah yes. Percy, this is Mr. Jawsling. He saved you from certain death by using first aid one you."

Jawsling chuckled at the statement. "Anyone could have done it, laddie. It was your quick wits that truly saved you. Anyway, I am ready to talk like I promised. So, one question for each of ya."

At this I stared questionably at the others. "We don't know who he is. When a couple of the campers came to investigate the noises we caused, they found him treating your wounds. He wouldn't talk no matter what and said would only talk when you woke up." said Grover.

Chiron was the first to ask. "Who are you, really?"

Jawsling grinned and said, "Didn't I already answer that? I'm Hennark Jawsling but you can call me Henk. Everyone back home calls me that. I'm also a veteran trapper of the Lemain War. I am not saying any more on this subject, so next."

I was puzzled at his answer. Even thou I was bad at history, I knew I never heard anyone speak of Lemain War, and most certainly didn't know what a trapper was although it sounded like a hunter, sort of.

Annabeth was next as she quickly asked, "What were you doing here?"

A thoughtful look appeared on his face as he slowly answered the question.

"I was going back from meeting someone I knew when all of a sudden I heard this bellow. And being the nosy type, I went to the direction it came from. You know what happened next. I found him and his friend, both lying unconscious with one of you bleeding. So being me, I treated your wounds as best as I could. After I was done, I tried to leave but that was stopped, wasn't it?" He shot a look at Chiron when he said the statement. Chiron looked a bit uncomfortable at this.

Slowly and nervously Grover asked his question. "Are you really…human? Your smell is a bit off. Sorry if I…offended you."

Henk became deadly quiet from which Grover grew fearful. Then suddenly he laughed a joyful laugh.

"Hahahah! Offended? Don't worry laddie, it would take more than that to make me mad. As for your question, I am 100% human. I have honestly no idea why I smell different to you thou. So, one more left."

Mr. D stared hard at him before saying, "You don't respect me."

I blinked at this. It was not a question, but a statement."

"Yes, so what? I don't care if your god or not. To me, you're nothing but a brat."

Everyone except Henk and Mr. D's jaws dropped in total shock. I just saw a man call a god brat. It must have being something that no one dared to even try until now.

Mr. D's lips tightened to a thin line. "Why?"

"Respect is something one **earns**. I dare you to blast me to pieces because if you do that, then that proves my point. To me, you're acting like a spoiled brat, so you're a spoiled brat. So, what are you going to do now?"

I thought Mr. D was going to vaporize Henk right then and there, but he just sighed through his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by the man. He got up, and Grover rose, too.

"I'm tired," Mr. D said. "I believe I'll take a nap before the sing-along tonight.

But first, Grover, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on this assignment."

Grover's face beaded with sweat. "Y-yes, sir."

Mr. D turned to me. "Cabin eleven, Percy Jackson. And mind your manners."

He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.

"Well then, I got things to do. See you later." and with that, the man to insulted a god and got away with it walked away. I shook my head a bit to bring myself back to normal before a thought entered my mind.

"Will Grover be okay?" I asked Chiron.

Chiron had also succeeded in getting back to normal nodded.

"Old Dionysus isn't really

mad. He just hates his job. He's been ... ah, grounded, I guess you would say, and he

can't stand waiting another century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."

"Mount Olympus," I said. "You're telling me there really is a palace there?"

"Well now, there's Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there's the home of the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on

Mount Olympus. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, Percy, just as the gods do."

"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like ... in America?"

"Well, certainly. The gods move with the heart of the West."

"The what?"

"Come now, Percy. What you call 'Western civilization.' Do you think it's just an abstract concept? No, it's a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it. You might even say they are the source of it, or at least, they are tied so tightly to it that they couldn't possibly fade, not unless all of Western civilization were obliterated. The fire started in Greece. Then, as you well know—or as I hope you know, since you passed my course—the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different names, perhaps—Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, and so on—but the same forces, the same gods."

"And then they died."

"Died? No. Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain, for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture.

People do not forget the gods. Every place they've ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the most important buildings. And yes, Percy, of course they are now in your United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not—and believe me, plenty of people weren't very fond of Rome, either—America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here."

It was all too much, especially the fact that I seemed to be included in Chiron's we, as if I were part of some club.

"Who are you, Chiron? Who ... who am I?"

Chiron smiled. He shifted his weight as if he were going to get up out of his wheelchair, but I knew that was impossible. He was paralyzed from the waist down.

"Who are you?" he mused. "Well, that's the question we all want answered, isn't it? But for now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet. And plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be

s'mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate."

And then he did rise from his wheelchair. But there was something odd about the way he did it. His blanket fell away from his legs, but the legs didn't move. His waist kept getting longer, rising above his belt. At first, I thought he was wearing very long, white velvet underwear, but as he kept rising out of the chair, taller than any man, I realized that the velvet underwear wasn't underwear; it was the front of an animal, muscle and sinew under coarse white fur. And the wheelchair wasn't a chair.

It was some kind of container, an enormous box on wheels, and it must've been magic, because there's no way it could've held all of him. A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hind quarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached.

I stared at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair: a huge white stallion. But where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher, smoothly grafted to the horse's trunk.

"What a relief," the centaur said. "I'd been cooped up in there so long, my fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come, Percy Jackson. Let's meet the other campers."


End file.
